Now, this morning, by God's help, I shall labor to be personal, and whilst I pray for the
rich assistance of the Divine Spirit, I will also ask one thing of each person here
presentI would ask of every Christian that he would lift up a prayer to God, that
the service may be blessed; and I ask of every other person that he will please to
understand that I am preaching to him, and at him; and if there be anything
that is personal and pertinent to his own case, I beseech him, as for life and death, to
let it have its full weight with him, and not begin to think of his neighbor, to whom
perhaps it may be even more pertinent, but whose business certainly does not concern him.

The text is a solemn one"He heard the sound of the trumpet, and took not
warning: his blood shall be upon him." The first head is thisthe warning was
all that could be desired"he heard the sound of the trumpet."
Secondly, the excuses for not attending to the startling warning are all of them both
frivolous and wicked: and therefore, in the third place, the consequences of
inattention must be terrible, because man's blood must then be on his own head.

I. First, then, THE WARNING WAS ALL THAT COULD BE DESIRED. When in time of war an army is
attacked in the night, and cut off and destroyed whilst asleep, if it were impossible for
them to be aware of the attack, and if they had made all diligence in placing their
sentinels, but nevertheless the foe were so wary as to destroy them, we should weep; we
should attach no blame to any one, but should deeply regret, and should give to that host
our fullest pity. But if, on the other hand, they had posted their sentinels, and the
sentinels were wide awake, and gave to the sleepy soldiers every warning that could be
desired, but nevertheless, the army were cut off, although we might for common humanity
regret the loss thereof, yet at the same time we should be obliged to say, if they were
foolish enough to sleep when the sentinels had warned them; if they folded their arms in
presumptuous sloth, after they had sufficient and timely notice of the progress of their
blood-thirsty enemy, then in their dying, we cannot pity them: their blood must rest upon
their own heads. So, it is with you. If men perish under an unfaithful ministry, and have
not been sufficiently warned to escape from the wrath to come, the Christian may pity
them, yea, and methinks, even when they stand before the bar of God, although the fact of
their not having been warned will not fully excuse them, yet it will go far to diminish
their eternal miseries, which otherwise might have fallen upon their heads; for we know it
is more tolerable for unwarned Tyre and Sidon in the day of judgment, than it is for any
city, or any nation that has had the Gospel proclaimed in its ears. My brethren, if on the
other hand, we have been warned, if our ministers have been faithful, if they have aroused
our conscience, and have constantly and earnestly called our attention to the fact of the
wrath to come, if we have not attended to their message, if we have despised the voice of
God, if we have turned a deaf ear to their earnest exhortation, if we perish, we shall die
warneddie under the sound of the Gospel, and our damnation must be an unpitied one,
for our blood must fall upon out own heads. Permit me then, to try, if I can, to enlarge
upon this thought, that the warning has been, in the case of many of you, all that could
have been needed.

In the first place, the warnings of the ministry have been to most of you warnings that
have been heard"He heard the sound of the trumpet." In far off
lands, the trumpet sound of warning is not heard. Alas! there are myriads of our
fellow-creatures who have never been warned by God's embassadors, who know not that wrath
abideth on them, and who do not yet understand the only way and method of salvation. In
your case it is very different. You have heard the Word of God preached to you. You cannot
say, when you come before God, "Lord, I knew no better." There is not a man or a
woman within this place who will dare then to plead ignorance. And moreover, you have not
only heard with your ears, but some of you have been obliged to hear it in your
consciences. I have before me many of my hearers whom I have had the pleasure of seeing
now for some years. It has not been once, or twice, but many a time, I have seen the tear
guttering their cheeks when I have spoken earnestly, faithfully, and affectionately to
you. I have seen your whole soul moved within you; and yet, to my sorrow, you are now what
you were: your goodness has been as the early cloud, and as the morning dew that passeth
away. You have heard the Gospel. You wept under it, and you loved the sound of it, and you
came again, and wept again, and many marveled that you did weep, but the greatest marvel
was, that after having wept so well, you wiped away your tears so easily. Oh, yes, God is
my witness, there are some of you not an inch nearer heaven, but ye have sealed your own
damnation doubly sure, unless ye repent: for ye have heard the Gospel, ye have despised
prophesyings, ye have rejected the counsel of God against yourself; and, therefore, when
you shall die, ye must die pitied by your friends, but at the same time with your blood on
your own heads.

The trumpet was not only heard, but, more than that, its warning was understood.
When the man, supposed in the text, heard the trumpet, he understood by it that the enemy
was at hand, and yet he took not warning. Now, my brethren, in your case, the sound of the
Gospel warning has been understood. A thousand faults your minister may have, but there is
one fault from which he is entirely frees and that is, he in free from all attempts to use
fine language in the expression of his thoughts; ye are all my witnesses, that if there be
a Saxon word, or a homely phrase, a sentence that is rough and market-like, that will tell
you the truth, I always use that first. I can say solemnly, as in the sight of God, that I
never went out of my pulpit, except with the firm belief, that whatever might have
happened, I was perfectly understood. I had sought, at least, so to gather wise words,
that no man might mistake my meaning; gnash his teeth he might, but he could not say,
"The preacher was misty and cloudy, talking to me of metaphysics, beyond my
comprehension; he has been obliged to say, "Well, I know what he meant, he spoke
plainly enough to me." Well, sirs, then if it be so, and if ye have heard warnings
that ye could understand, so much the more guilty are ye, if ye are living this day in
rejection of them. If I have preached to you in a style above comprehension, then on my
head must be your blood, because I ought to have made you understand; but if I come down
to men of low estate, and pick even vulgar phrases to suit common people, then if you
understood the warning, and if ye then risked it, mark you, my hands are clean of your
blood. If ye be damned, I am innocent of your damnation, for I have told you plainly, that
except ye repent, ye must perish, and that except ye put your trust in the Lord Jesus
Christ, there is for you no hope of salvation.

Again, this trumpet sound was startling. The trumpet's sound is ever considered to
be the most startling in the world. 'Tis that which shall be used on the resurrection
morning to startle the myriads of sleepers, and make them rise from their tombs. Ay, and
ye have had a startling ministry. Ye have sat, some of you, under ministers that might
have made the devil himself tremble, so earnest have they been; and they have made you
tremble sometimes, so much, that you could not sleep. The hair of your head was well nigh
moved to stand upright. They spake as though they never might speak again: as dying men to
dying men. They spoke as if they had been in hell, and knew the vengeance of the Almighty,
and anon, they spoke as if they had entered into the heart of Jesus, and read his love to
sinners. They had brows of brass; they knew not how to flinch. They laid your iniquity
bare before your face, and with rough language that was unmistakable, they made you feel
that there was a man there who told you all things that ever you did. They so declared it,
that you could not help feeling under it. You always retained a veneration for that
minister, because you felt that he at least was honest with you; and you have sometimes
thought that you would even go and hear him again, because there at least your soul was
moved, and you were made to hear the truth. Yes, you have had a startling ministry, some
of you. Then, sirs, if ye have heard the cry of fire, if ye are burned in your beds, your
charred ashes shall not accuse me. If I have warned you that he that believeth not must be
damned, if you are damned, your miserable souls shall not accuse me. If I have startled
you sometimes from your slumbers, and made your balls and your pleasure parties uneasy,
because I have sometimes warned you of these things, then sirs, if after all you put away
these warnings, and you reject these counsels, you will be obliged to say, "My blood
is on my own head."

In many of your cases the warning has been very frequent. If the man heard the
trumpet sound once and did not regard it, possibly we might excuse him; but how many of my
audience have heard the trumpet sound of the gospel very frequently. There you are, young
man. You have had many years of a pious mother's teaching, many years of a pious
minister's exhortations. Wagon loads of sermons have been exhausted upon you. You have had
many sharp providences, many terrible sicknesses. Often when the death-bell has tolled for
your friend, your conscience has been aroused. To you warnings are not unusual things;
they are very common. Oh! my hearers, if a man should hear the gospel but once, his blood
would be upon his own head for rejecting it; but of how much sorer punishment shall you be
thought worthy who have heard it many and many a time. Ah! I may well creep, when I think
how many sermons you have listened to, many of you, how many times you have been cut to
the heart. A hundred times every year you have gone up to the house of God, and far
oftener than that, and you have just added a hundred billets to the eternal pile. A
hundred times the trumpet has sounded in your ears, and a hundred times you have turned
away to sin again, to despise Christ, to neglect your eternal interests, and to pursue the
pleasures and the concerns of this world. Oh! how mad is this, how mad! Oh, sirs, if a man
had but once poured out his heart before you concerning your eternal interests, and if he
had spoken to you earnestly, and you had rejected his message, then, even then, ye had
been guilty. But what shall we say to you upon whom the shafts of the Almighty have been
exhausted? Oh, what shall be done unto this barren ground that hath been watered with
shower after shower, and that hath been quickened with sunshine after sunshine? What shall
be done unto him who being often rebuked, still hardeneth his neck? Shall he not be
suddenly destroyed, and that without remedy, and shall it not then be said, "His
blood lieth at his own door, his guilt is on his own head?"

And I would just have you recollect one thing more. This warning that you have had so
often has come to you in time. "Ah," said an infidel once, "God
never regards man. If there be a God, he would never take notice of men." Said a
Christian minister, who was sitting opposite to him in the carriage, "The day may
come, sir, when you will learn the truth of what you have just said. "I do not
understand your allusion, sir," said he. "Well, sir, the day may come, when you
may call, and he will refuse; when you may stretch out your hands and he will not regard
you, but as he has said in the book of Proverbs, so will he do, 'Because I called, and ye
refused; because I stretched out my hands, and no man regarded, I also will mock at your
calamity, I will laugh when your fear cometh.'" But oh, sirs, your warning has not
come too late. You are not warned on a sick bed, at the eleventh hour, when there is but a
bare possibility of salvation, but you are warned in time, you are warned to-day, you have
been warned for these many years that are now past. If God should send a preacher to the
damned in hell, that were an unnecessary addition to their misery. Surely, if one could go
and preach the gospel through the fields of Gehenna, and tell them of a Saviour they had
despised, and of a gospel that is now beyond their reach, that were taunting poor souls
with a vain attempt to increase their unutterable woe; but O my brethren, to preach the
gospel now is to preach in a hopeful period; for "now is the accepted time: now is
the day of salvation." Warn the boatman before he enters the current, and then, if he
is swept down the rapids, he destroys himself. Warn the man before he drinks the cup of
poison, tell him it is deadly: and then, if he drinks it, his death lies at his own door.
And so, let us warn you before you depart this life; let us preach to you while as yet
your bones are full of marrow, and the sinews of your joints are not loosed. We have then
warned you in time, and so much the more shall your guilt be increased, because the
warning was timely; it was frequent, it was earnest, it was appropriate, it was arousing,
it was continually given to you, and yet you sought not to escape from the wrath to come.

And so even this morning would I say to you, if ye perish, my skirts are white of your
blood; if ye are damned, it is not for want of calling after, nor for want of praying for,
nor for want of weeping over. Your blood must be on your own heads; for the warning is all
that is needed.

II. And now we come to the second point. MEN MAKE EXCUSES WHY THEY DO NOT ATTEND TO THE
GOSPEL WARNING, BUT THESE EXCUSES ARE ALL FRIVOLOUS AND WICKED. I will just go over one or
two of the excuses that people make. Some of them say, "Well, I did not attend to the
warning because I did not believe there was any necessity for it." Ah! You were told
that after death there was a judgment, and you did not believe there was any necessity
that you should be prepared for that judgment. You were told that by the works of the law
there shall no flesh living be justified, and that only through Christ can sinners be
saved; and you did not think there was any necessity for Christ. Well, sir, you ought to
have thought there was a necessity. You know there was a necessity in your inner
consciousness. You talked very large things when you stood up as an unbeliever, a
professed unbeliever: but you know there was a still small voice that while you spake
belied your tongue. You are well aware that in the silent watches of the night you have
often trembled; in a storm at sea you have been on your knees to pray to a God whom on the
land you have laughed at; and when you have been sick nigh unto death, you have said,
"Lord, have mercy upon me;" and so you have prayed, that you have believed it
after all. But if you did not believe it, you ought to have believed it. There was enough
in reason to have taught you that there was an hereafter; the Book of God's revelation was
plain enough to have taught it to you, and if you have rejected God's Book, and rejected
the voice of reason and of conscience, your blood is on your own head. Your excuse is
idle. It is worse than that, it is profane and wicked, and still on your own head be your
everlasting torment.

"But," cries another, "I did not like the trumpet. I did not like the
Gospel that was preached." Says one, "I did not like certain doctrines in the
Bible. I thought the minister preached too harsh doctrines sometimes, I did not agree with
the Gospel; I thought the Gospel ought to have been altered, and not to have been just
what it was." You did not like the trumpet, did you? Well, but God made the trumpet,
God made the Gospel; and inasmuch as ye did not like what God made, it is an idle excuse.
What was that to you what the trumpet was, so long as it warned you? And surely, if it had
been time of war, and you had heard a trumpet sounded to warn you of the coming of the
enemy, you would not have sat still, and said, "now I believe that is a brass
trumpet, I would like to have had it made of silver." No, but the sound would have
been enough for you, and up you would have been to escape from the danger. And so it must
be now with you. It is an idle presence that you did not like it. You ought to have liked
it, for God made the Gospel what it is.

But you say, "I did not like the man that blew it." Well, if you did not like
one messenger of God, there are many in this city. Could you not find one you did like?
You did not like one man's manner; it was too theatrical; you did not like another's: it
was too doctrinal; you did not like another's: it was too practicalthere are plenty
of them, you may take which you do like, but if God has sent the men, and told them how to
blow, and if they blow to the best of their ability, it is all in vain for you to reject
their warnings, because they do not blow the way you like. Ah, my brethren, we do not find
fault with the way a man speaks, if we are in a house that is on fire. If the man calls,
"Fire! Fire!" we are not particular what note he takes, we do not think what a
harsh voice he has got. You would think any one a fool, who should lie in his bed, to be
burned, because he said he did not like the way the man cried, "Fire." Why his
business was to have been out of bed and down the stairs at once, as soon as he heard it.

But another says, "I did not like the man himself; I did not like the minister; I did
not like the man that blew the trumpet; I could hear him preach very well, but I had a
personal dislike to him, and so I did not take any notice of what the trumpet said."
Verily, God will say to thee at last, "Thou fool, what hadst thou to do with that
man; to his own master he stands or falls; thy business was with thyself." What would
you think of a man? A man has fallen overboard from a ship, and when he is drowning, some
sailor throws him a rope, and there it is. Well, he says, in the first place, "I do
not like that rope; I don't think that rope was made at the best manufactory; there is
some tar on it too, I do not like it; and in the next place, I do not like that sailor
that threw the rope over, I am sure he is not a kind-hearted man, I do not like the look
of him at all;" and then comes a gurgle and a groan, and down he is in the bottom of
the sea; and when he was drowned, they said, that it served him right, if he would not lay
hold of the rope, but would be making such foolish and absurd objections, when it was a
matter of life and death. Then on his own head be his blood. And so shall it be with you
at last. You are so busy with criticising the minister, and his style, and his doctrine,
that your own soul perishes. Remember you may get into hell by criticism, but you will
never criticise your soul out of it. You may there make the most you can of. it. You may
be there and say, "I did not like the minister, I did not like his manner, I did not
like his matter;" but all your dislikings will not get one drop of water to cool your
burning tongue, nor serve to mitigate the unalleviated torments of that world of agony.

There are many other people who say, "Ah, well, I did none of those things, but I had
a notion that the trumpet sound ought to be blown to everybody else, but not to me."
Ah! that is a very common notion. "All men think all men mortal, but
themselves," said a good poet; and all men think all men need the Gospel, but not
themselves. Let each of us recollect that the Gospel has a message to each one of us. What
saith the Gospel to thee my hearer ? What saith the Word to thee? Forget thy
neighbors, and ask this question. Doth it condemn thee? or doth it assure thee
of thy pardon? for recollect, all thou hast to do in the hearing of the Word, is to
hear with thine own ears for thine own soul, and it will be idle for any one to say
"I did not think it applied to me," when we know that it is to be preached to
every creature under heaven, and therefore there must be something in it for every
creature or else it would not be preached to every creature.

Well, says another, "But I was so busy, I had so much to do, that I could not
possibly attend to my soul's concerns. What will you say of the man who had so much to do
that he could not get out of the burning house, but was burnt to ashes? What will you say
of the man that had so much to do, that when he was dying, he had not time to send for a
physician? Why, you will say, then he ought not to have so much to do. And if any man in
the world has a business which causes him to lose his own soul for want of time, let him
lay this question to his heart, "What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole
world, and lose his own soul?" But it is falseit is falsemen have got
time. It is the want of will, not want of way. You have time, sir, have you not, despite
all your business, to spend in pleasure? You have time to read your newspaperhave
you no time to read your Bible? You have time to sing a songhave you no time to pray
a prayer? Why, you know when farmer Brown met farmer Smith in the market one day, he said
to him, "Farmer Smith, I can't think how it is you find time for hunting. Why, man,
what with sowing and mowing and reaping and plowing, and all that, my time is so fully
occupied on my farm, and I have no time for hunting." "Ah," said he,
"Brown, if you liked hunting as much as I do, if you could not find time, you'd make
it." And so it is with religion, the reason why men can not find time for it is,
because they do not like it well enough. If they liked it, they would find time. And
besides, what time does it want? What time does it require? Can I not pray to God over my
ledger? Can I not snatch a text at my very breakfast, and think over it all day? May I not
even when I am busy in the affairs of the world, be thinking of my soul, and casting
myself upon a Redeemer's blood and atonement? It wants no time. There may be some time
required; some time for my private devotions, and for communion with Christ, but when I
grow in grace, I shall think it right to have more and more time, the more I can possibly
get, the happier I shall be, and I shall never make the excuse that I have no time.

"Well," says another, "but I thought I had time enough, you do not want me,
sir, to be religious in my youth, do you? I am a lad, and may I not have a little frolic
and sow my wild oats as well as anybody else?" Wellyes, yes; but at the same
time the best place for pleasure that I know of, is where a Christian lives; the finest
happiness in all the world is the happiness of a child of God. You may have your
pleasuresoh, yes! you shall have them doubled and trebled, if you are a Christian.
You shall not have things that worldlings call pleasures, but you shall have some that are
a thousand times better. But only look at that sorrowful picture. There, far away in the
dark gulf of woe, lies a young man, and he cries, "Ah! I meant to have repented when
I was out of my apprenticeship, and I died before my time was up." "Ah!"
says another by his side, "and I thought, whilst I was a journeyman, that when I came
to be a master, I would then think of the things of Christ, but I died before I had got
money enough to start for myself." And then a merchant behind wails with bitter woe,
and says, "Ah! I thought I would be religious when I had got enough to retire on, and
live in the country; then I should have time to think of God, when I had got all my
children married out, and my concerns settled about me, but here I am shut up in hell; and
now what are all my delays worth, and what is all the time I gained for all the paltry
pleasures in the world? Now I have lost my soul over them." We experience great
vexation if we are unpunctual in many places; but we can not conceive what must be the
horror and dismay of men who find themselves too late in the next world! Ah! friends, if I
knew there was one here who said, "I shall repent next Wednesday," I would have
him feel in a dreadful state till that Wednesday came; for what if he should die? Oh! what
if he should die? Would his promise of a Wednesday's repentance save him from a Tuesday
damnation?

Ah, these are all idle excuses. Men make not such when their bodily life is concerned.
Would God that we were wise, that we would not make such pitiful pretences to apology,
when our soul, our own soul, is the matter at stake. If they take not warning, whatever
their excuse, their blood must be upon their own head.

III. And now, I come most solemnly to conclude with all the power of earnestness; the
warning has been sufficient, the excuse for not attending to it has been proved profane;
then the last thought is "HIS BLOOD SHALL BE ON HIS OWN HEAD." Briefly
thushe shall perish; he shall perish certainly; he shall perish inexcusably.
He shall perish. And what does that mean? There is no human mind, however
capacious, that can ever guess the thought of a soul eternally cast away from God. The
wrath to come is as inexpressible as the glory that shall be revealed hereafter. Our
Saviour labored for words with which to express the horrors of a future state of the
ungodly. You remember he talked of worms that die not, and fires that are never quenched,
of a pit without a bottom, of weeping, and wailing and gnashing of teeth in the outer
darkness.

No preacher was ever so loving as Christ, but no man ever spoke so horribly about hell;
and yet even when the Saviour had said his best and said his worst, he had not told us
what are the horrors of a future state. Ye have seen sicknesses, ye have heard the shrieks
of men and women when their pangs have been upon them. We, at least, have stood by the
bed-sides even of some dear to us, and we have seen to what an extent agony may be carried
in the human body, but none of us know how much the body is capable of suffering.
Certainly the body will have to suffer forever"He is able to cast both body and
soul into hell." We have heard of exquisite torments, but we have never dreamt of any
like unto this. Again, we have seen something of the miseries of the soul. Have we never
marked the man that we used to know in our childhood who was depressed in spirits. All
that ever could be done for him never could evoke a smile from himnever did the
light of cheerfulness light up his eyehe was mournfully depressed. Ay, and it was my
unhappy lot to live with one who was not only depressed in spirits, but whose mind had
gone so far amiss, that it did brood fancies so mournful and dismal, that the very sight
of him was enough to turn the sunlight of summer into the very darkness of a dreary
winter. He had nothing to say but dark, groaning words. His thoughts always had a sombre
appearance about them. It was midnight in his soula darkness that might be felt.
Have you never seen yourselves what power the mind has over us to make us full of misery?
Ah, brethren and sisters, if ye could go to many of our asylums, and to our sick
wardsay, and dying beds, too, you may know what acute anguish the mind may feel. And
remember that the mind, as well as the mortal frame, is to endure damnation. Yes, we must
not shirk that word, the Scripture saith it, and we must use it. Oh! men and women, except
we repent, except we do each of us cry for mercy to him that is able to save, we must
perish. All that is meant by that word "hell" must be realized in me, except I
be a believer; and so all that is meant by "Depart, ye cursed," must be thine,
unless thou dost turn unto God with full purpose of heart.

But again, he that turneth not at the rebuke of the minister shall die, and he shall die certainly.
This is not a matter of perhaps or chance. The things we preach, and that are taught in
Scripture, are matters of solemn certainty. It may be that death is that bourne from which
no traveller returns, but it is not true that we know nothing of it. It is as certain as
that there are men, and a world in which they live, that there is another world to come,
and that if they die impenitent, that world will be to them one of misery. And mark
youthere is no chance of escape, die without Christ, and there is no gate out of
which you can escapeforever, oh, forever lost, and not one hope of mercycast
away, and not one outlet for escape, not one solitary chance of ransom. Oh, if there were
hope that in the world to come, men might escape, we need not be so earnest; but since
once lost, lost for ayeonce cast away, cast away without hope, without any prospect
of a hope, we must be earnest. Oh, my God, when I remember that I have to-day some here
present who in all probability must be dead before next Sabbath, I must be earnest. Out of
so large an assembly, the chances are that we shall not all of us be found pilgrims in
this world within another seven days. It is not only possible, but probable, that some one
out of this vast audience will have been launched upon a world unknown. Shall it be
myself, and shall I sail to the port of bliss, or must I sail over fiery waves forever,
lost, shipwrecked, stranded, on the rocks of woe? Soul, which shall it be with thee? It
may be thou shalt die, my gray-headed hearer, or thou young lad, thou boy, thou mayest
dieI know not which, nor can we tellGod only knoweth. Then let each one ask
himselfAm I prepared, should I be called to die? Yes, you may die where you are, on
the benches where you are sittingyou may now dieand whither would you go? for
recollect that whither ye go, ye go forever. Oh!
eternityeternityeternitymust I climb thy topless steeps forever, and
never reach the summit, and must my path be ever misery or joy. Oh! eternity, thou depth
without a bottom, thou sea without a shore, must I sail over thy boundless waves forever
in one undeviating trackand must I either plough through seas of bliss, or else be
driven by the stormy winds of vengeance, over gulfs of misery? "Then what am I?"
"My soul awake and an impartial survey take." Am I prepared? Am I prepared? Am I
prepared? For, prepared or not, death admits of no delay, and if he is at my door, he will
take me where I must go forever, prepared or not.

Now, the last thing is, the sinner will perishhe will perish certainly, but,
last of all, he will perish without excusehis blood shall be on his own head.
When a man is bankrupt, if he can say, "It is not through reckless tradingit
has been entirely through the dishonesty of one I trusted that I am what I am;" he
takes some consolation, and he says, "I can not help it." But oh, my hearers, if
you make bankrupts of your own souls, after you have been warned, then your own eternal
bankruptcy shall lie at your own door. Should never so great a misfortune come upon us, if
we can trace it to the providence of God, we bear it cheerfully; but if we have inflicted
it upon ourselves, then how fearful is it! And let every man remember that if he perish
after having heard the Gospel, he will be his own murderer. Sinner, thou wilt drive the
dagger into thine heart thyself. If thou despisest the Gospel, thou art preparing fuel for
thine own bed of flames, thou art hammering out the chain for thine own everlasting
binding; and when damned, thy mournful reflection will be this:I have damned myself,
I cast myself into this pit; for I rejected the Gospel; I despised the message; I trod
under foot the Son of Man; I would have none of his rebukes; I despised his Sabbaths; I
would not hearken to his exhortations, and now I perish by mine own hand, the miserable
suicide of my own soul."

And now a sweet reflection strikes me. A good writer says, "There are, doubtless,
spots in the world that would be barren forever, if we recollected what had happened
there." Says he, "I was once in St. Paul's cathedral, just under the dome, and a
friend just touched me gently and said, 'Do you see that little chisel mark? and I said
'Yes.' He said, 'That is where a man threw himself down, and there he fell, and was dashed
to atoms.'" The writer says, "We all started aside from that little spot, where
a fellow-creature's blood had been shed. It seemed an awful place when we remembered
that." Now, there is many a street, there is many a way-side, there is many a house
of God, where men have taken the last decision, and damned their own souls. I doubt not,
there are some here this morning, standing or sitting, to whom the voice of conscience
says, "Decide for God," and now Satan and the evil heart together are saying,
"Reject the message; laugh it off; forget it: take a ticket for the theater
to-morrow: do not let this man alarm us: it is his very profession to talk to us like
this; let us go away, and laugh it off; and let us spend the rest of this day in
merriment." Yes, that is the last warning thou wilt ever have. It is so with some of
you. There are some of you that will this hour decide to damn yourselves, and you will
look forever throughout eternity, to that place under the gallery, and you will say,
"Alas! woe was the day I heard that man, I was half impressedalmost he
persuaded me to be a Christian, but I decided for hell." And that will be a solemn
spot to angels where you are standing, or where you are sitting, for angels will say to
one another, "Stand aside; that is a spot where a man ruined his own soul for ever
and ever. But the sweet thought is, that there are some places just the reverse.

Why, you are sitting, my friend, this morning, on a spot where some three weeks ago one
sat who was converted to God; and that place where you are sitting you ought to venerate,
for in that place there sat one who was one of the chiefest of sinners like yourself, and
there the Gospel message met him. And far back there, behind the door, many a soul has
been brought to Christ. Many a piece of good news have I heard from some in yonder upper
gallery. "I could not see your face, sir, all the sermon through, but the arrow of
the Lord found its way round the corner, and reached my heart notwithstanding that, and I
was saved." Ah, well, may God so bless this place, that every seat of it this day may
be solemnized by his own grace, and a spot to be remembered in your future history by
reason of the beginning of your blessedness, the dawn of your salvation. "Believe on
the Lord Jesus, and be baptized, and thou shalt be saved." This is the gospel we are
told to preach to every creature"He that believeth, and is immersed, shall be
saved, he that believeth not shall be damned."